Delirium
by AngeliqueBouchard1972
Summary: "And now all your love will be exorcised. And we will find you saints to be canonized. And it's an even song. It's a melody. It's a battle cry. It's a symphony. Seven devils all around me. Seven devils in my house. See they were there when I woke up this morning. I'll be dead before the day is done." - Seven Devils: Florence and the Machine.


**Ah, so you see, I am human. I like to be curious and take risks. But most of all, I got sidetracked. Sorry kids. I am (and I promise) still working on chapter 6... I know what you're thinking. How long does it possibly take a person to write and perfect 2,000 words?! More than you'd think. But in the meantime, enjoy this little one, possibly two chapter writing piece. **

**This is for those of you who do not understand witchcraft or evil. Actual evil. Actual possessions. People really poke fun at this stuff with some films and books I've read (Beautiful Creatures being the main one). So I've decided to give you a glimpse into what I believe (Based off many non fiction books and descriptions) of what first experiencing possession is like. A "first glance" if you might call it, as to being a dealer of the devils work. Now this does relate to my book One To Remember; and If you haven't read that do so right after reading this. Hope you enjoy (and please don't be too critical, I'm just trying to help people understand that being a witch isn't 100% your own choice, especially for her). Here we go!**

***WARNING* This is a very dark, frighting topic that could be disturbing or controversial for some readers.**

Emotions. A rarity really, an unknown web of feeling that determine our actions. Humans experience them fully, while other creatures have some, and yet some are subjected to only being able to have subliminal thought. Though, at this moment in time, that might have been better for me.

The world closes around me. Like a burning fire without a flame. Searing away at the edges, gnawing away at the core. Pins are jabbed into my side and up my neck. I look up, unsure if the pain is physical or not. Upon coming to the conclusion that I was unaware I buried my head back into the straw pillow, a series of shark pains erupting as I do. I am empty. Empty of love, empty of care or worry; empty of hope. The strife that would carry me on burns no more. I care for no one. Not in mercy or kindness. Not in compassion.

Barnabas had taken that away. Everyone had taken that away. People meant nothing anymore. When I remember their faces all I see is the eyes of the devil himself. He is haunting me. Not obviously, but just because I am emotionless does not mean I'm ignorant. Though instead of seeing him as another evil figure in desperate plea to control to me, I see him as what he is. He is pain, evil, revenge. All that he should be.

And I am not myself. I have no more desire. Instead of feeling I go blank. No more tears fall from my face. My senses only detect cracks burrowing their way deeper and deeper into my pale white flesh. I imagine that I would look terrifying. I do not care. Existence does not register in my mind as a necessary thing. Similar to my memory, my emotions. My head ridden of them all. In fact, nothing registers in my mind as a necessary thing.

I break my empty concentration only to realise that I am not breathing. I do not care. After about a minute I gasp for breath subconsciously. I attempt to speak to myself. To notice something. It is impossible to form words, but not to remember them. Only, they are not words when I hear them. But they are sound. Cries of desperation, screams of agony, a whisper of fear. Though I do not feel these emotions, I hear them all around me. I am an empty shell of my former self, looking inward.

I look at myself. Not physically, for my eyes do not seem to function anymore. But existentially, all of my memories and emotions mixed into one place. In front of me. I am not far away, very close in fact. Instead of seeing a person, like one would envision you would see when you see your soul, I see a new picture. One I can see and sense and feel. Hear, smell, taste.

That is the first thing I notice. Blood. It is read and vibrant, screeching and bitter in my mouth. Then burning. It scorches my skin and inflames my nose. Cold sets in, and I notice it's sound. I hear wind and water and a shrill note burning in the back of my skull. I feel a cold surface, like a tile floor resting against my entire body, even the parts touching the rest of myself. But it is all together at once you see, blended and confusing.

Only, above all that I hear another sound. This time, not a cry. Not a whimper. It is a whisper, only different. I hear birds and see yellow. Yellow of the sun. Comforting warmth of sheets engulf me and I vividly understand who it is. Their words are quiet. Not in a way that causes anxiety, but a way that reassures. That protects. Warm, smooth skin brushes over parts of my body. I see not his body, nor his face. But I sense him. All of him. His presence wrapped up into an experience.

For a second, I change. Everything changes. The world was engulfed in moments ago flees. I hear, taste it, sense it fully. Canaries. Canaries and yellow. Fresh sheets and mens cologne. His lips. Soft and hot against my skin. It is clear and crisp. I open my eyes, wanting to see him as well.

Wanting. I want to. I snap my eyes open, my world fulfilled again. But when I do, I see darkness. This time, it's real. I opened my eyes, out of desire. Which I know I should think is good. It is supposed to be good to desire. But what I get does not fulfill my cravings. My brief moment of joy crumbles to pieces, like a piece of wrapping paper. For the dark is as vivid as light. I am alone. He is not there. My room is an empty void. Moonlight shines onto the floor, providing a small sense of reality. Wind. I can hear wind, and register it. It used to comfort me. Now it comforts nothing. Only the fact the fact that I presume I can hear it. And darkness. So much of it. My eyes are still open, but I only see black. I feel black. I feel the color. The color worn at funerals and memorials. I feel it's tones and shades. I smell smoke. And feel cool, damp, fog on my skin. From an empty standpoint. So I realise once again it was not my feelings, but the feelings of my past shown to me. Shown to me by who.

_Quelqu'un me contrôlait._

I cough roughly and recoil upright faster than necessary. It's the dark. The red, scream, the cold and hot together. I now remember it from my own memory. I remember giving myself to it. I had been in this very room, earlier this day. I saw it then. It was creatures. It was their shrills, their deep tones and empty void that cloaked me. I saw them, wrestling over one another, clawing and scratching. It appeared as if they were to escape. Escaping a pit of darkness. But there is something else. I see them another way. Seven. There are seven of them. And they are standing in my room. They shift forms, like grains of sand blowing in the wind.

They are two things at once. They are the creatures that I saw in the pit earlier. Demons. I know what they look like. But they are also men. In black. All black. Thier hats cover their face. But somehow I see through it. And just like everyone else's face, they're blank. Not just of emotion. They have no face at all. It's blurry and somehow seems to be unimportant. As if everything could be explained about a person without one. Very little emotion is accessible. And what is, does not seem pleasant. Though how can I expect that. My mind can not easily generate ideas about a pleasant faces. But I know I can remember Barnabas'. I will always be able to remember his face. I try to think of him. Anything. Remember his face.

I can't. Screams resonate from my throat, but nothing happens. It was only an illusion. And I still cannot picture his face. Even though I might not like to admit it, I know his face. He has a beautiful, appearingly kind face. I used to see it every day. An emotion is coming to me. Panic. Along with this comes a memory. I was panicking earlier today. That is why my mirror is broken. I broke it. I am a witch and I broke it with my mind. I am a witch. A witch. My heart pumps faster. I can hear myself breathing now but I am still terrified. I know who the demons were. The faceless creatures.

They are witches. The men as well. Demons and witches and sadists. But their face showed no sign of rebellion. No sign of anger. Their faces showed no emotion at all. Their screams empty. Like me. Like I was a moment ago. My breathing hitched. I push myself out of bed. Harshly and off balance. I want them to leave. I strain myself, wanting to feel emotion now. I want them to leave me alone. The leave, like a whisper, before I can reach them. A small sense of peace sets over me and I want to sigh. But I still cannot control myself fully. I can't sigh. I start to fall to my right from the sudden movement. I know I'm not ready to be doing this when I bit ago I was not breathing.

Or was it a moment ago? It seemed like hours. How long have I been awake? Most of my body still has no feeling. I only sense a faint tingling sensation in my right hand and neck. Then I look down and realise why. I stepped on the glass of the mirror and barely registered it. I look down at my foot and somehow manage to move it so I can see the bottom. There are pieces of glass stuck all over my feet. Large pieces, deep inside my foot. When I pull one out, it does not hurt. I wince slightly. Not because of the sensation, but because I cannot feel it. And then I realise something else. Something that really terrifies me. There is no blood coming from my wounds. All I see is black where the places where the glass was stuck inside of me. Panic becomes clearer and other memories having the same main emotion make themselves clearer to me. I start to hyperventilate again but think nothing of it. Out of curiosity and astonishment I rub my finger over the surface of the scratch. I gently, or what I believe is gently, dig my nail into the crevice the shard created. There is nothing there. No blood, no flesh, no warmth.

I am a living corpse. A porcelain doll. I raise the piece of glass in my left hand slowly to my face and I stare at myself. The cracks I remember hearing and not acknowledging were real. A large trench stretches down from my right forehead down the side of my face and body. It branches out, like a vine or roots in th ground. Claiming me. It is black and voidless, like my soul. I stare myself in the eyes. My assumption was correct. Just this afternoon my eyes were blue. Now they are black. All black. Dark circles engulf that and as my gaze ventures further down my body I find bruises, scratches, bite marks and blood. And I have felt none of it. The shard of glass falls from my hand and I stand there in silence, the few conscious thoughts I can manage spinning in my mind. In the cold, dark, empty void of my room. Of my life. Of me.

_Qu'ai-je fait?_

**Song: "Seven Devils" by Florence and The Machine.**

**Translations:**

**_"Quelqu'un me contrôlait.": Someone is controlling me._**

**_"Qu'ai-je fait?": What have I done?_**

**Remember to review, rate and follow! Please comment telling me what you thought! Did I come off to strong? Don't agree? Think I explained it perfectly? Let me know! Any contribution is welcome and appreciated.**

_Till next time,_

_Angelique Bouchard_

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